


Rescue Me

by coaldustcanary



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Hurt Napoleon Solo, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:13:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26414716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coaldustcanary/pseuds/coaldustcanary
Summary: Napoleon had been here before. It was almost familiar, in its way.Imprisoned, check.Surrounded by enemies, check.Mortal danger, check.Just the usual, really.Now, where was Peril?
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 16
Kudos: 225
Collections: pine4pine 2020





	Rescue Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Corvidology](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvidology/gifts).



Napoleon had been here before. It was almost familiar, in its way. Imprisoned, check. Surrounded by enemies, check. Mortal danger, check. Just the usual, really.

_Mostly._

He wasn't concerned.

_Much._

He was, unfortunately, thoroughly battered, confined to a cell, and under the rapidly intensifying influence of at _least_ one drug of dubious origin, but who was counting at this point? All Napoleon knew was that he’d taken a spray of some aerosolized agent through the bars of his cell right up in his face by an anonymous lab assistant in a full gas mask, and he had passed out cold.

That had been an hour or so ago, he thought. They had stopped bothering to keep an eye on him ever since, even as he had roused from unconsciousness and laboriously pulled himself into a sitting position. Under normal circumstances that would have meant he could have picked the lock on his cell in a space of a couple heartbeats—normal heartbeats, admittedly, not the wild, staccato thumping of his own heart that seemed to thud in his eardrums even now—but Napoleon couldn’t seem to take proper control of the requisite limbs to even maneuver himself from where he slumped against the wall to begin.

Whatever he’d been dosed with by the T.H.R.U.S.H scientists, who were currently scurrying like their lab rats to evacuate the building with as much of their diabolical research as they could carry given the discovery of his ties to U.N.C.L.E, it had taken effect quickly. Hopefully, Peril appreciated a good challenge because Napoleon wasn’t sure how much help he was going to be this time. Given his lack of opportunity and ability to affect an escape, Napoleon weighed the likelihood that his rescue might arrive before T.H.R.U.S.H thought the better of their penchant for elaborate schemes and decided to shoot him where he slumped in the cell. Odds were only marginally in his favor, he concluded. Still, he could try…

“Excuse me? Sir? Miss? Doctor? Are you a doctor? Might I have a word?” he croaked gamely through the cell door in the direction of the lab staff.

None of them bothered to even glance in his direction, and Napoleon sighed deeply, settling in to wait.

Since the frantic fever-pitch tumult of Rome—and in particular the hazy, pain-laced time in Rudi’s chair that had stretched for what felt like days but had hardly been an hour—Napoleon had taken on mission after mission for Alexander Waverly’s little pet project, generally with one or both of his new partners by his side. And just like in Rome, whenever even his uncanny gambler’s luck inevitably turned bad from time to time, he could always expect Illya Kuryakin to pull his fat out of the proverbial fryer.

Dungeons, jail cells, torture chambers, the odd megalomaniac’s secret lair, it didn't matter: his partner would unerringly find him using his superior, personally improved-upon Soviet trackers, slipped neatly into the soles of his shoes. Or using his near photographic memory of case file blueprints. Or—who knows, Napoleon certainly didn't—maybe his keen sense of super agent smell!

Actually, that was a bit of an unsettling thought, Napoleon decided, rolling his head from side to side against the cell wall to clear it and shuddering. Probably, _hopefully_ it wasn't that.

It wasn’t, after all, as if he hadn’t returned the favor many times, Napoleon reasoned, laboriously pulling his hand to his face to scratch at his chin. (The length of stubble he found there provoked a distasteful grunt.) In Paris he’d squeezed off a perfect shot to eliminate the sniper taking aim at Gaby just last month, and a few missions before that, while infiltrating a rebel military compound outside Cartagena, he’d pulled Illya bodily back from a pressure-triggered trap by his belt and prevented him from being blown to bits. Peril had even expressed his gratitude with a few fitfully growled words of Russian as they'd sprinted through the jungle ahead of the pursuit that followed. He smiled dazedly at the recollection. Napoleon hadn’t had any time to preen about it at the time, of course, but it wasn’t as if it was always Illya saving the day.

Just…most of the time. A man could feel some kind of way about it, really. A man could get to, perhaps, enjoy a certain thrill and aesthetic appreciation of his partner's efficient, effective, single-minded dedication. The improvement in his circumstances from being the C.I.A’s most-effective and least-appreciated agent to becoming an integral part of an international team of agents who had cleanly saved the world, politics be damned, multiple times just in the past year had been one hell of a gift.

The camaraderie and complicated affection between the three of them and Waverly’s honest, if dry regard was sharp contrast to his years working under Sanders’ scorn and served as icing on the cake.

On the other hand, his growing infatuation for his competent, loyal, and, frankly, gorgeous partner, a complete specimen of superagent (and he used the word in his mind without irony for perhaps the first time ever) was something akin to a very unexpected, liquor-infused ganache filling for said cake—sinful, unprofessional, and best enjoyed privately.

Napoleon squashed thoughts of his elaborate baking metaphor, squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and inched himself higher against the wall at his back. This was rapidly becoming intolerable, but he had to take stock of the situation. He’d been roughed up when his cover had been spectacularly blown, naturally, and he was sore all over. In particular, he’d taken a few vicious kicks to the ribs that should have had him breathing cautiously. Instead he gaped like a fish, sucking in breath and tugging feebly at his collar, somehow unable to get quite enough air, every inhalation prodding the ache. Was something on fire in the lab just outside? It had become entirely too hot and close in this cell, the gray walls seeming to blur and ripple as his vision swam.

Napoleon began to worry that Illya might arrive to find him dead and wouldn't _that_ be embarrassing?

No, that wouldn’t do at all.

He needed to figure out what he’d been dosed with, at least.

“Ah, excuse me? Ladies and gentlemen? Esteemed scientists?” he ventured once more, pitching his voice to carry as best as he could, given his breathlessness. One or two of the half dozen white coats moving about the lab glanced his way this time. Napoleon huffed, disgruntled. It was a start, and better than his last attempt.

“Might I ask what you’ve dosed me with? Seemed like an awful charade for poison, even slow-acting, so I admit that I’m curious. And warm. Quite warm, actually. Is it warm in here for you, too?” he trailed off somewhat faintly. The scientist closest to his cell, a mousy middle-aged woman impatiently heaving file folders into a box, spared him a glance he took as pitying. In response, he affected a wounded, vulnerable sort of look. She sighed mournfully, and turned back to her work, clapping a lid on the box and pressing it into the arms of her younger colleague, waving her away before turning a sharp eye on Napoleon.

“It’s a truth serum, Mr. Solo,” she said. Napoleon resisted the urge to curse only barely, trampling down the wave of uneasiness her answer prompted, waving a hand at their activity with affected calm.

“Are you going to have time for an interrogation, do you th—”

“Not anymore, no. It’s no use, anyway. It didn’t prove uniquely effective in our trials,” the scientist interrupted, tilting her head to the side to study him further. Napoleon felt a brief flare of relief, but it was not long-lived.

“Then why would you—” She tutted him to silence, holding up a finger to punctuate her reply, a smile curving her lips as she warmed to her subject.

Napoleon was not comforted.

“But it was not an entirely useless enterprise. You see, this particular compound had a very interesting side effect,” she continued, then hesitated.

“Mmm. I suppose it won’t compromise any experimental data to tell you. It’s a naturalistic experiment, now, and the outcome is well out of your hands, so to speak, even if you are aware of the effects. If only we had more time…”

The scientist shook her head almost sadly. Behind her, the last of the other white-coated scientists hurried from the room. Napoleon blinked sluggishly, scrubbing his face roughly with one hand. He wanted to rise and try to cajole more information from her, but he had the certain feeling that an attempt at standing would end with him flat on his face on the floor once more. But the T.H.R.U.S.H scientist continued speaking regardless.

“As “truth serums” are designed to do, it lowers inhibitions and increases suggestibility, but our results have not yielded efficacy that compares favorably to the success of other interrogation methods and existing formulas. However, this particular agent also powerfully stimulates physiological arousal and adrenaline production, among other hormones, upon activation,” she added, bending down to pick up a final box of supplies and turning to go, tossing her final words over her shoulder with a regretful glance.

“It’s really a terrible pity not to be here to see the formula in action,” she said by way of parting. Napoleon barely heard her, as the rushing in his ears matched the fuzzy graying of his vision.

The scientist rushed from the room, leaving him alone in the ransacked laboratory. As he slowly slipped from consciousness a second time to the soft squeaking of abandoned fellow test subjects of the rodent persuasion, Napoleon finally began to feel properly concerned.

* * *

“Solo!”

“-‘m ‘wake, stop, wha-“ Napoleon groaned, rousing to consciousness as he was shaken so hard his teeth rattled, blinking rapidly to try to clear his fuzzy vision to see-

“Peril!”

 _-finally_.

It was Illya, of course, frowning deeply, concern written all over his features. Napoleon squinted blearily, confused. Illya sighed with what Napoleon charmingly believed to be relief, and gently touched Napoleon’s neck, feeling for his pulse.

“You okay, Cowboy? Couldn’t wake you—"

Illya’s touch to his skin was like nothing Napoleon had ever before felt in his life—like molten heat pouring through his whole body from that little spot on his neck. Not even the memory of Rudi’s vile contraption could compare. He gasped sharply, and as Illya recoiled, startled, Napoleon heaved himself up and back, connecting hard with the concrete wall and slumping down to the floor. The room swam before his eyes dangerously, Illya’s black-clad form blurring briefly into a dark smear against the gray.

“What is wrong?” Illya asked. He remained crouched just a few feet away, his hands outstretched, though whether to reach for Napoleon again or ward him off was unclear.

It wasn’t pain he’d felt, or not only pain. It was as if the barest touch of Illya’s fingers to his neck had reached inside him and twisted every nerve in his body at once, lighting him up with a mixture of pain and pleasure from head to heel, and then dissipated. He panted, shivering – it was truly not unlike Rudi’s damned chair.

Adrenaline, the scientist had said. Something about hormones. Arousal. A sharp, prickling sensation crept over Napoleon’s skin, radiating out from that tiny spot where Illya’s fingers had pressed. It raised the hair on his scalp and suddenly his clothing and his very skin all seemed too tight, constricting his already labored breath further. Embarrassingly, he was half-hard and despite the situation it seemed unlikely to abate. With a groan, Napoleon tugged fitfully at his collar, even as the dark shape in the corner of his eye moved, coming closer.

_Illya._

Illya had pulled him out of Rudi’s chair, gotten him free of worse situations than this and he was here, wasn’t he? Illya was here. And Illya was approaching him again, and wasn’t that just wonderful…

_Was it? Wait…_

“No! Drugged,” was all he managed to grunt between one heaving breath and the next. As before, Napoleon’s pulse was staggering into a too-rapid beat, and it felt like every nerve in his body had been scrubbed briskly with a wire brush. He felt off-balance and dizzy—if he wasn’t already on the floor, he’d have pitched to his knees and keeled over, for certain. Illya hesitated, muttering something angry in Russian that Napoleon couldn’t make out clearly over the harsh rasp of his own breathing, and turned away to glare back into the ransacked lab.

“What kind of drug? There could be counteragent remaining,” Illya began, turning his gaze back toward the lab. Napoleon shook his head. Of course Illya would imagine a direct solution to a complex problem.

“Doubt it. Said it was new. Sad they’d miss the show,” he said, managing a feeble smile as he tugged his collar further open. Sweat dripped from his hairline, sticking his shirt to his back unpleasantly. With a sudden surge of anger, he tore his shirt free of his slacks, popping a few buttons. Though it was certainly already a lost cause, he spared a fleeting moment of regret. He’d liked this shirt. Illya was still staring, a variety of emotions passing over his expressive face one after the other as fingers tapped restlessly at his leg in frustration.

“Don’t think it’ll kill me,” Napoleon managed. “Just…unpleasant.” It was a massive understatement, but it was all he could manage before another wave of intense sensation had him pressing back hard into the cell wall, the chill of it barely registering through his overheated skin. Illya shook his head, frustration at his inability to help in every checked motion.

“You should go,” Napoleon managed, crossing his arms across his body and digging his fingers into his upper arms, trying to hold himself still. The simple friction of clothing against his body felt like a delicate but sharply pointed caress. He wanted suddenly to press off the wall and barrel directly into Illya instead. To press him up against the far wall of the cell, and—

_What?_

—no, that wasn’t right.

It was. Fuck. He wanted Illya. Not as he sometimes did, in lazy, half-formed fantasies when he got himself off or fell into idle distraction during long and tedious stakeouts. Not as he often did, in wistful appreciation for the set of his partner’s shoulders or his sudden bright smile. But with a deep and sudden need that he had no hope of controlling. Napoleon’s hands, fisted in the fabric of his shirt, began to shake.

“I’m not leaving you,” Illya said firmly, his voice cutting through the dizzying fog.

Napoleon wasn’t certain how it would actually turn out if he made the grave mistake of moving in the other man’s direction, but all he could think of was getting away before he did something they’d both regret. He pushed himself up the wall into a standing position and lurched toward the back the cell, further away from Illya’s looming form. He managed one careful step before staggering, but not before Illya sprang forward and his strong arm caught him across the shoulder and chest. The heat of his body as he braced Napoleon on his feet was all at once unbearable and impossible to resist. Napoleon wanted very badly to melt bonelessly into his partner’s embrace. But everywhere his skin touched Napoleon’s own—his gaping collar, the angle of his cheek brushing Illya’s neck—sent sparking, blended pain and pleasure that overwhelmed every nerve. It hurt, the ache bone deep and dancing along every injury he had, igniting pain afresh, but it also edged into pleasure as he pressed even harder into Illya, the band of his supporting arm leaving him groaning with a needy ache.

“You have to go. Go. Or, fuck, I can’t—"

Thrashing free of Illya’s grasp, Napoleon turned barreled his shoulder into his partner, slamming him into the cell wall and pressing his mouth to Illya’s with a helpless groan.

In a very small corner of Napoleon’s mind where he clung desperately to sense, and reason, and pride he realized that this was very, very bad. This sort of thing was, metaphorically speaking, cake filling of extremely dubious provenance. And Illya wasn’t even his cake! He was probably Gaby’s cake, or his own cake, or…

Napoleon had to admit to himself that the cake metaphor was pretty bad, all things considered. Except for how much he wanted to devour his partner, he supposed. It was a desperate, aching need, so much that he doggedly ignored Illya’s arms lifting to certainly shove him away. Napoleon only broke his mouth away from Illya’s only to gasp for a ragged breath.

When he pressed his mouth to Illya’s again with a needy whine, the other man’s arm shifted to pull him closer in, chest to chest, his other hand’s fingers combing up through Napoleon’s thoroughly wrecked hair and cupping his head, and Illya kissed him back thoroughly. Despite the waves of sensation threatening to drive him out of his own mind Napoleon spared an amazed thought for the realization that not only was he kissing Illya, but Illya was kissing him back, and _goddammit_ but Illya Kuryakin was unfairly good at kissing. He took Napoleon’s near-frantic contact and gentled it into something nearly tender, easing his tongue along Napoleon’s lip almost teasingly, brushing his mouth into the corner of Napoleon’s lips softly. Somehow his response steadied Napoleon enough to form words again.

“Illya. I’m sorry, I need—” he broke off, shaking and gripping Illya’s shirt tightly, swaying on his feet even as Illya held him up. Illya looked entirely too tempting, his cheeks flushed and his mouth reddened from Napoleon’s own— _God_ —teeth and tongue, but something soft around his eyes. Illya’s hands remained steady, the weight of them against Napoleon’s back and neck soothing to every overstimulated nerve in his body.

“What do you need, Cowboy?” Illya asked, low and rough, and a shudder echoed up Napoleon’s spine at both the words and the sincerity in his voice. If Peril was willing to throw himself on this grenade selflessly, Napoleon was in no fit state to refuse him.

The only trouble was, Napoleon wasn’t certain how to answer to that question. He leaned into the firm line of Illya’s body supporting his own and loosened his grasp from Illya’s shirt to lay his hand over Illya’s where it still curled almost possessively around the back of his neck. Adding the pressure of his own hand atop Illya’s was like the heartbeat’s wait after downing a good dram of scotch; it smoothed the burn into a steady pleasure. He was hard and aching and caught between an embarrassing desire to throw Illya bodily out of the cell (as if he could) to get himself off as quickly as possible (if he even could) and an equally embarrassing need to get himself off by rubbing against Illya like a horny teenager.

“It helps,” he muttered between fitfully-drawn breaths, pressing down harder yet atop Illya’s hand. Illya caught on quickly, slipping his other hand beneath the untucked hem of Napoleon’s shirt and pressing firmly up along his spine. Napoleon’s eyes fell shut as he moaned so deeply with sudden, spasmadic pleasure that Illya’s steady touch hesitated, prompting a regretful whine out of him. Illya hummed softly, half thoughtful, half soothing, and eased Napoleon away from where they were pressed up against the wall to stagger them both over to the simple cot bolted to the back of the cell. They sat down on it together, clinging to one another, and Napoleon let out another little groan, though this one was more pain than pleasure.

“Easy,” Illya murmured, his hands moving under Napoleon’s shirt carefully, pressing against his ribs with purpose.

“Nothing’s broken,” Napoleon muttered tightly, his forehead falling onto Illya’s shoulder, pressing his face into his neck, breaths puffing damply into Illya’s shirt. The full body shudders had subsided to small tremors in his limbs, his aching torso steady under Illya’s hands.

“No,” Illya agreed, his touch slipping back from the professional, purposeful check for wounds and back to a slow caress, neatly undoing the rest of Napoleon’s shirt buttons. He pressed Napoleon down to the thin mattress, his brow furrowed with concentration. Napoleon’s stared up at him with unabashed awe—Illya was arresting like this, full of concern. It was nothing he should be enjoying, nothing he should deserve to see like this, and yet. He had wanted this for so long.

“Let me,” Illya said, voice nearly a whisper, and pressed his mouth to Napoleon’s bared throat. His cheek caught against Napoleon’s stubble, and Napoleon’s breath caught in his throat.

“You are infuriating,” Illya muttered, low and almost petulant, into his skin. It startled a laugh out of Napoleon even as he bucked up into Illya's body, caught between the soft torture of Illya’s open-mouthed kisses and the pain that seeped through his body in waves even still. With shaking hands, he threaded his fingers through Illya’s hair and tugged, briefly pressing his hips up off the bed into Illya’s leg with a groan.

“I do aim to please,” he replied breathlessly, snorting at Illya’s annoyed growl. Napoleon groaned softly with mixed disappointment and pleasure when Illya firmly pinned his limbs to the bed, disentangling himself from Napoleon’s grip. At least Illya kept his touch steady, the only thing remaining to ground him.

“Infuriating,” Illya repeated. “Always getting caught. You are a terrible spy, Cowboy. Always needing rescue.” His fingers traced gently over the blooming bruises on Napoleon’s ribcage, face a mask that only softened as Napoleon writhed desperately at the contact.

“Can’t exactly complain,” Napoleon managed. “If this is what it gets me.” He froze, even as the pain-pleasure surge swept over him once more. The mousy T.H.R.U.S.H scientist had clearly indicated that this concoction was not really a truth serum, and yet he'd had no intention of speaking that particular truth aloud. Illya looked down at him with an expression that Napoleon couldn’t immediately identify; an unusual thing, when Illya’s face was often uncommonly easy to read for a spy.

"You have wanted this?" Illya's voice was tight, his gaze roving over Napoleon's face, searching for an answer even as he sat back, loosening his hold. Napoleon could only stare up at him helplessly for a long moment. 

"Yes," he said, the word dragged from him even as he shook his head in futile denial, but he could make no other answer. The dissonance sparked another rolling wave of feeling through his body intense enough that he arched up off the cot, slamming his head back into the mattress. Illya swiftly reached out to cradle his head, and Napoleon leaned desperately into the contact, slurring his words of apology.

"I'm sorry, Peril. I'm sorry. This isn't fair to you. I'll never speak of it, I'll go, leave the team, whatever you want, but _please_ —"

"Shut up, Cowboy," Illya growled. 

“Illya,” he began again, uncertain, before the other man leaned up swiftly to kiss him again, cutting him off.

“I will show you reward,” Illya said sharply, punctuating his pronouncement with bruising kisses, holding Napoleon’s face firmly between his hands. Mindful of keeping his weight off Napoleon’s bruised ribs, Illya nonetheless managed to loom over him on the narrow cot and let one of his hands slip from Napoleon’s face along his side to slide deliberately into his slacks. Illya barely circled his fingers loosely around his cock before Napoleon was arching off the bed, cursing and letting out breathless, pained gasps.

“Terrible spy,” Illya repeated, pausing to gently close his teeth over Napoleon’s earlobe and pulling even as his hand moved steadily over Napoleon’s cock. “Could have done this in any number of plush hotel beds, after a good meal and a drink, but no, finally admitting to feelings under influence of T.H.R.U.S.H pharmaceuticals seemed like the better idea.” The rumble of Illya’s voice in his ear, against his throat, had Napoleon reeling, but Illya kept him pinned securely to the bed. Illya paused to pull his hand free of Napoleon’s slacks only to lick his palm with an expression of concentration that left Napoleon breathless before returning to working him over with gentle thoroughness.

It was nothing like he’d fantasized about. Never mind the gray cell walls and the narrow cot that squeaked alarmingly with their every move; every imagined scenario where he’d get close to Illya had been conceived as either an extended, coaxing courtship to get the man into his bed or a knock-down, dragged-out fight turned into a rough and tumble fuck. But this, with Illya looking down at him with mingled care and determination, was nothing he could have dreamed.

He wasn’t going to last long. The drug, Illya’s unerringly direct touch and careful embrace, and the overstimulation of every sensory input ranging from bliss to agony had him near orgasm in an embarrassingly short period of time. Still, it only took an approving hum and the scrape of Illya’s teeth against his throat for Napoleon to come harder than he ever had before in his life. He sagged, limp and sweating, eyes falling shut in exhaustion edged with a little embarrassment even as the overwhelming sensory input began to subside. It was like a cool breeze finally breaking unbearable heat, and he nearly wept with relief.

“Terrible spy. But a good partner,” Illya murmured, low and barely audible over Napoleon’s panting breaths, muffled into the skin of his neck. “We will have to do this again when you are well and we are free of this place, and I will show you.” Napoleon felt Illya smile against his skin and drop a kiss behind his ear, holding him close while he regained his breath, and decided that maybe, on balance, this latest adventure in antagonizing T.H.R.U.S.H's mad scientists had been worth it.


End file.
